Issue 36: From here to there

Dearest reader,

Between the beginning of March and the beginning of this month, I shared a letter with you each week for 35 weeks. And then, as some of you may have noticed, I went silent for a few weeks. I haven’t really been compelled to share much these past weeks. The internet, lately, has become a place I go to when I want to turn my head away from the shameful trivialities of my own life and towards Palestine. And, lately, that’s where I’ve been wanting to turn my head on most days, and—especially—most nights.

I don’t know if I even have that much to share with you tonight. But I’m here, sitting with my legs stretched out under these thin bedsheets, my eyes heavy, with a slight ache in my lower back, tense jaw, stiff eyebrows—and I guess, if I’m here, and if you’re here, then, perhaps, I should share something with you.

I learned earlier today that a man named Anas, the director of the Aida Youth Center in the Aida refugee camp, has been arrested by the Israeli occupation forces. At the time I sit to write this letter, he hasn’t been heard from in over 48 hours. Anas was someone I spent most of my summer with back in 2018 when I volunteered at the Aida Youth Center. He became kind of like a father figure to me while I was there. I would walk from my accommodations in Beit Jala to the Youth Center every morning, usually alone, sometimes with friends, and once I got to the building with glassless, uncovered windows Anas would smile and greet me and talk about what he had planned that day. Some days I helped kids read from the Quran, some days I taught or co-taught music classes, some days I just sat around and joked with the kids there, who were mostly on summer break and looking to have fun and pass time.

I remember Anas always smelling good and being well-groomed. He wore, if my memory serves me correctly, freshly ironed polos, jeans, and sneakers on most days. I liked him because he would continue speaking to me in Arabic even though he had the choice of switching to English. Anas, Mohammed, and Mustafa—these men quickly became my three older brothers while I was in Palestine that summer. They were charismatic and had a talent for always finding the funny side of a situation. They looked out for me, and I grew very attached to them while I was there.

It’s crazy to me that over five years have now passed since I used to do that morning walk each day. It’s crazy to me that the kids I met that summer are now entering their middle school or high school years and are thinking about whether their crush is crushing on them back. It is, unfortunately, not crazy to me at all that Anas has been arrested. He’s a young Palestinian man and, simply existing as such, puts one in the crosshairs of American-funded Israeli bloodlust.

I don’t really know where even to take this—maybe I should say something about hope, maybe I should find some silver lining, maybe I should make some self-deprecating remark or, through some ambiguous interleaving of motivations—turn this letter into some galvanizing call to action. I guess what I’ll do instead is simply say that my back is now aching even more than it was before, my eyes are even heavier than they were when I started writing tonight’s letter, and that I hope—wherever he is right now—Anas is breathing, safe, and that he returns home soon.

Love,
Reef